Chapter Twenty-one
Sailor
For once in my life, I needed the feds to show up unexpectedly.
I had to tell them that I was done with them; I couldn't keep acting as their eyes and ears, even if I’d stopped feeding them information after the Costa house bombing.
If the truth came out, it wouldn't matter how long I’d been their mole.
Just the fact that I was involved with them at all would damage my relationships irrevocably.
Texting Marshal Berkshire, I told him I wanted to terminate my arrangement with the FBI.
Though it irked me to have to turn to him in my time of need, I didn't know who else I could talk to.
I knew I couldn't trust any of them, that was for certain, but he was the oldest connection to law enforcement I had.
But the last thing I expected was to find Agent Lauder waiting for me outside the grocery store when I exited later that afternoon.
“Get the fuck in my car,” she snarled at me.
“I don't think I will.” I kept walking across the parking lot, but my hands shook as I attempted to open my car door and put my groceries inside.
Patricia grabbed a handful of bags, throwing them in my back seat as she spoke. “It’s either the relative privacy of my vehicle or out here in the middle of the parking lot for all to hear.”
With a stone building in my gut, I closed the door and followed her to her black SUV. She opened the passenger door for me, and I reluctantly sat down. When she slammed her door, my throat went dry.
“What is this bullshit you told David? We have a deal.”
“And I’m backing out of that deal,” I said in a thin voice.
“You can’t honestly be stupid enough to believe he actually loves you. He’s only using you.”
My heart twisted. Did she think I hadn't already considered that? “He doesn't know anything about me, so how would he be using me?”
“The same way men use women all the time. All he has to do is give you orgasms, buy you things, and tell you how pretty you are. Then bam”—she clapped her hands together—“you’re under his spell.”
My cheeks flamed as she described Noah fairly accurately. “Again, for what purpose?”
She turned angry eyes on me. “To make you his lap dog, dumbass. If you marry him, you automatically begin covering for him, lying to be his alibi after another hit job.”
“You’re delusional.” I reached for the door handle. “I wouldn't lie for him, and I don’t condone murder.”
“I will arrest you.” Her harsh words made me stop in my tracks. “I’ll charge you with obstructing a federal investigation.”
“I haven't obstructed a goddamn thing. I told you what I learned; it’s not my fault you aren’t good at your job.”
“I need this family taken down for good,” she snapped. “And you were supposed to be the lynch pin to make that happen.”
“Too bad. Don’t approach me ever again, and stop fucking surveilling me. That goes for you, the marshal, and any present or future agents who think they can use my tragedy to manipulate me.”
Though my legs felt like jelly, I climbed out of her car and walked over to mine.
But when I got inside and locked the doors, I found it difficult to move another inch.
I had to force back the threat of overwhelming tears before I could turn the ignition, driving home carefully over the fear that I’d get in a wreck.
The security alarm beeped at me as I entered, a newly comforting sound that made me feel safe. As I put my groceries on the counter, I snorted. Was there any such thing as safe for me anymore?
The important thing was that I was done. I was no longer a mole. I wasn't snitching on the man I loved and the father figure I’d never known how badly I needed before. I could safely move on with all the promises the men were making to me.
And I wanted them with everything inside me. I wanted a husband, a sister, a father. I wanted a house to fill with children, though it had never occurred to me before that they were important to me. With Noah, all the little things were important.
But the agent’s words replayed in my head. Could they arrest me? Was she just mad, or was she right? Obviously, I’d fucked up their investigation by not helping enough. All things considered, that didn't upset me.
With a sigh, I texted Berkshire again. I couldn't begin seeing him as an ally, but he was my only resource on this subject.
I’d put all my groceries away before he responded. No, Agent Lauder had nothing on me. She was just a mad bitch.
I had to laugh at that. He and I saw the same things in her then.
With the stress over for the time being, I recalled the beautiful new restaurant Noah had taken me to the night before.
The lingerie felt unusual under my dress, but I got used to it quickly.
It was really rather soft; I just wasn't accustomed to wearing anything remotely similar.
We had a lovely meal, talked about everything and nothing, and then we went back to his suite.
I had such a thrill taking off my dress for him. Showing him the pale blue set made of silk and lace made him feral. I never knew I had that kind of power over someone, and it made me feel heady as he shoved me against the bedroom door, hastily unzipping his pants before thrusting inside me.
“You drive me wild,” he groaned in my ear.
All I could do was hold onto him, feeling the way my body responded to his. He kept me locked in place, pressed solidly to the door, until we both came.
He ran his finger over the strap on my shoulder. “I'm going to buy entire stores’ worth of this shit, as long as I get to see it on you.”
“And I’m going to let you.”
Running my hand up to cup my throat, I thought about the way he could be sweet or savage, depending on how he was feeling.
One minute he was fucking me raw, and then we were cuddling in bed, sleeping soundly in each other's arms. That was the type of moment I'd longed for my entire adult life, knowing I wouldn't experience it like a normal person would.
But, somehow, the intimidating mafia don Noah Costa was soft and vulnerable with me.
Unfortunately, I knew we’d have to talk about what he did for a living. I’d have to come to terms with it and hope he wasn't out there at night gunning people down. I didn't want to ask him to change for me, but I couldn't justify murder, even for the love of my life.
Scariest of all, I’d have to tell him what really happened the night of the accident, and my given name. He deserved to know who he was marrying, even if I didn't truly know myself.
At the end of the evening, I texted Noah to see how he was doing.
I wanted to spend the night together, but he and Benito had a dinner meeting that he said might run long.
One day soon, I would be getting ready for bed in our house, and he’d come to me when he was done with work.
It was the type of future that was meant for someone else, yet somehow, I’d gotten lucky enough to have it set right in front of me.
Since he was still involved with whatever was so important, he told me he loved me and said we’d talk tomorrow. With the night surrounding me, I lay down and got comfortable.
Once I closed my eyes, the nightmare started the same as always: the interior of the car; the dark road beyond. My parents’ laughter, and the way I talked nonstop about rainbow sprinkles and pirouettes. As she always did, my mom turned to smile at me, but then everything changed.
Normally, that was the moment bullet holes opened up the windshield, and my mother screamed my name. We spun out, rolled four times, and the car came to a rest on its side, busted and smoking. I crawled out through the broken sunroof, slicing open my abdomen.
I tried to pull them out, tried to fix what was unfixable.
But in this dream, my mother turned to smile at me, and the driver turned his head, too. For the first time, I saw his features fully, and recognition hit me like a sucker punch.
Not my father, but the smiling man in the picture on top of Noah’s file box, with the blond hair and hazel eyes that ran in the Franco family.
It wasn't my mother I resembled, but my father.
I was positive the man in the picture wasn't Carmine, especially since it appeared to be current, but that was very close to what my father would look like if he were still alive.
Abruptly sitting up in bed, my heart hammering in my chest, I wiped sweat off my brow and tried to figure out what to do. Fumbling for my phone, I called Noah while my entire body trembled.
“Sailor? I thought you were going to bed.”
Between harsh, panting breaths, I managed to say, “I need you here.”
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“Please,” was all I could say. “Please come.”
He didn't hang up when I could no longer speak, but kept talking to me over the different noises in the background. He excused himself from the other men, and then I heard his car door slam a minute later.
“Sailor?” he kept repeating. “Are you okay?”
Was I okay? Would I ever be okay again?
“I’m sorry,” I managed to sob before my fingers went completely numb and I dropped the phone.
Not long after, I heard the front door open and the security alarm do its thing, followed by a handful of beeps as Noah reset it. He found me still in bed, my arms wrapped around my knees as I rocked back and forth.
“What the fuck happened?” Sitting beside me, he put his arms around me, and I sank into his warmth. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” My brain was still jumbled in the odd space between the accident and present time. “It’s my dad.”
“What about him?”
“You had a picture a little while ago of two men standing beside each other.”
I felt him stiffen. “What do you know about that?”
“I'm not sure. But my nightmare was different this time, and if I can help you with whatever that was about, then I want to.”
Pulling back, I wiped at my face and studied his eyes. They weren't the typical calm, unguarded ones I'd grown used to, but wary and slightly closed off.
“But I'm afraid,” I whispered. “I'm terrified that what I'm about to tell you will ruin our relationship.”
He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, and then reopened them. “That's not possible.”
Yeah, you say that now. “In my memories, I can picture my mother effortlessly. I take after her: eyes, nose, hair.” I took a deep breath. “But I can never picture my father's face. He's either somewhere behind me, or I can only see the back of his head.”
“Sailor, I fail to see—”
“I was born Sara Franco.”
His body jerked, and I twisted my hands in my lap as misery engulfed me.
“My parents were Carmine and Sofia Franco,” I continued. “I don't know who they were, and that has wrecked me every day of my life.”
Noah's face became frozen, a polite expression etched on a piece of stone.
“We were shot at that night. He was hit in the head, and my mom was hit in the chest. That's why we flipped, why I cut myself getting out, and why I went into foster care.
But the police tried to tell me it was a deer, and that I had to change my name and move upstate to protect me from the press.
I didn't realize until I was older that their story was a lie.”
“Your last name is Franco?”
I didn't recognize his voice, and that gutted me. Somehow, I knew my truth would destroy us. He wasn't even focused on the details of the accident and my subsequent childhood agony, but on my given name.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I've been trying to find the right way to tell you because you deserve to know. But tonight, in my dream, the blond man in that picture took the place of my father in the car. And I-I needed you to know.”
Slowly, he got off my bed and looked down at me. “You're positive your father died?”
“At this point, I'm not positive of anything.” Sucking in a deep breath, I added, “So if he did, then this guy is somehow related to the Francos. He looks too much like my dad not to be.”
Every inch of him turned to ice. His eyes, his expression, and even his posture. “You never knew what your father did? Or who he was?”
Heart pounding, my throat dry as the desert, I tried to accept what was happening to us. “I suffered a traumatic brain injury from the accident. All my pre-ten-year-old memories are fuzzy and often mixed with the here and now.”
“Thank you for telling me the truth.”
It was said so robotically that I couldn't stop the flood of tears. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.”
“No, it's understandable.” He backed up. “I have to talk to my father right away.”
“Of course.”
When he walked out, I was afraid that was the last time I'd ever see him.